


A Matter of Distance

by lamardeuse



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-31
Updated: 2012-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-30 10:09:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/330584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamardeuse/pseuds/lamardeuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James Hathaway is a reluctant gentleman of leisure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Matter of Distance

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to yunitsa and Dorothy for fantastic beta, historical and Britpicking assistance. Any remaining errors are mine.
> 
> Hathaway is Anglican rather than Catholic in this story because Catholics were not admitted to read for degrees at Cambridge until 1895 (thanks to yunitsa for that important - and disturbing - fact).
> 
> Written for [this prompt](http://lewis-hathaway.dreamwidth.org/6013.html?thread=12413#cmt12413) at the Lewis_Hathaway community on Dreamwidth. 1840s AU.

For the hundredth time since they had arrived, James Hathaway wished his houseguests gone.

More to the point, he wished his blasted Uncle Randolph had never died and left him this great hulking estate in Oxfordshire, for he had been perfectly content until then to live as an outcast, the youngest son of a youngest son who had spent his inheritance on supporting the cause of abolition. The resulting scandal his father's actions had caused – for such it was for a family with considerable interests in the West Indies – had condemned James and his siblings to a life of frugal piety and social obscurity, but James had never cared; the Hathaways had always been content on their small farm in Devon. One of James' fondest childhood memories was being given charge of the chickens at the age of eight. He could still recall that indescribable feeling of the first weight of heady responsibility on his slim shoulders, of knowing even then that he was made to serve his family and his God.

It had been nearly two years since his unexpected elevation to gentleman of leisure, and he still refused to assume the mantle when there was no one hanging about the place he needed to impress. The staff were inured to his eccentricities, and took his desire to participate in the running of the farm in stride. Unfortunately, there were still social conventions to be considered: he had two unmarried sisters who finally had a chance at suitable matches, and he had an obligation to assist in securing their happiness, if nothing else.

“I thought I would find you out here.” James started at the sound of his youngest sister Grace’s voice. Turning, he saw her through the haze of his pipe smoke as she approached him across the terrace. “If you keep puffing on that thing with such frightful determination, they’ll hitch you to a train on the Great Western and force you to pull it.”

James sighed and removed the pipe from between his teeth. “I’m trying to relax.”

She arched her eyebrows. “I know it will come as a terrible shock, but you are not succeeding.” Smiling up at him, she slid her arm through his and stood close to him. “I wish you would not live against your heart in this way.”

“I promised Mama before she died that I would look after your and Mary’s welfare,” James said. “I cannot shirk my duty.”

“By auctioning us off to rich husbands?” Grace snorted.

James peered out into the darkness. At the edge of the garden, he could see a faint light coming from the groundskeeper’s cottage. “She always regretted our loss of position for your sakes.” He nodded at the house, where a peal of merry laughter erupted as if on cue. “A couple of the fellows are agreeable.”

“Mary seems to think so,” she said. “She and Mr. Davison seem very well suited.”

“I've noticed.” Davison would not have been his first choice – he'd been standoffish at Cambridge, though whether it was due to James' chosen course of study or his disgraced position, James could not say. Since James was no longer poor nor planning to take orders, there could be no way of telling why Davison was so amiable now. At any rate, it hardly mattered; his attentions to Mary throughout the previous London season had been near-constant, and Mary had clearly favoured him for some time. If there were no engagement announced soon, James would be surprised. “And what about you? Shall I line them up on the morrow for your closer inspection?”

Grace tugged on his arm a little, succeeding in throwing him off-balance and making him stumble before he could recover himself. “You know I am too rough to ever catch the eye of a moneyed fop,” she said. “I could always beat you at tree-climbing; I still can. No, I shall marry for love or not at all.”

“You doom me to endless rounds of insufferable houseguests for the rest of eternity, then.”

“Quite the opposite. I hereby release you from your responsibility for my fate.”

“That is most kind of you,” he said, affectionately. “But it is not only for our mother's sake that I concern myself with your future.”

“Dear brother, we must all make our own way in the world. You have found yours, and I know you would never let me starve if there were a danger of it; but I think there is no worry of that. I have prospects.”

“And what are those, pray tell?”

She grinned up at him in a most unladylike fashion. “I have been offered a teaching position at a school that is devoted to the instruction of poor children, one that is quite selective in its choice of instructors.”

“I am glad of it for your sake, for I know you have always wished for such a place in life, but you must know it is not what Mama wanted now that our social standing has been restored.”

“That is true, and it pains me to go against her wishes,” Grace said, sobering. “But my God calls me to serve, and I must do so according to my own beliefs. I cannot believe that He wants me to do so by attending balls and never lifting a finger to relieve the misery of my fellow man.”

“You are Father's daughter,” James said, smiling. “Where is it?”

“In Newcastle-Upon-Tyne,” she said. “Not far from where your Mr. Lewis was born.”

James stared back at her, nonplussed. “How do you know where my groundskeeper was born?” He had introduced them, of course, when she had made her first visit here, but that was all.

“I have had occasion to speak with him now and then when I visit the stables or encounter him in the garden. He is a most genial sort of man.”

“I have not found him so,” James said. “But perhaps he is more agreeable to ladies.”

“Oh, do not fret,” she said, shaking him again. “He is perfectly respectful. He does not believe in God at all, did you know?”

James looked out across the lawn. “He did once. Not any longer.”

“I am shocked that you have not tried to return him to the fold.”

“I forfeited the right to proselytise five years ago,” James murmured. “At any rate, I would not impose my views upon – one in my service.”

“That is very enlightened of you,” she said slowly. “Well, I shall write you sheets and sheets when I am up north, and you must write back. And come and visit me.”

“Northumbria is the end of the Earth,” James said, “but I have heard it is very beautiful, in a wild way.”

“It is,” Grace said. “Also rough-edged and isolated, but I am not suited for a soft life.” When James stiffened, she leaned her head against his arm. “Cheer up. We will be soon be gone again, and you will be free to climb trees and tend your chickens.”

“Did Mr. Lewis reveal my secrets, then?”

“He did not have to. I divined as much for myself.”

Pressing his cheek against the top of her head, James murmured, “I shall miss you, Grace.”

“And I you, dear James. Be happy.”

James looked at the place where the light had been, but there was nothing there now but unbroken darkness. “I shall do my best to be so.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

After a restless night, James woke at daybreak, dressed hastily in his more workaday clothes, then made his way to the sheep barn. There, he found Mr. Lewis and young Ned, the housekeeper's son, in one of the pens. Ned was sitting on a bale of hay with his arms round one of the ewes, which was struggling and bleating most piteously, its legs waving in the air.

“Hold 'er still, man,” Lewis said gruffly. There was a hoof-knife in his right hand, and James watched as he took hold of one of the animal's legs while trying to avoid being kicked in the stomach by the others.

Ned looked up as he approached out of the shadows. “Sir,” he said, nearly losing his grip on the animal as he startled.

“Steady on there, lad,” James said, as Lewis turned to look at him. “Perhaps you'd better let me take your place, hm? Annabelle always did fancy me.”

Lewis frowned. The man was dark-haired, but his eyebrows were nearly as fair as James' own, an odd incongruity. “You have other duties at the house, sir, which should not be neglected,” he said carefully.

James assumed his blandest expression. “None of my guests will stir from their beds for at least another three hours,” he said. “I would consider it a much more serious neglect of my duty if my groundskeeper were disemboweled by a maddened ewe when I might have prevented it.”

Ned's gaze flickered back and forth between them as though he were watching a tennis match. Finally, Lewis sighed and rose to his feet. “All right, lad,” he said, gesturing at Ned, “let him have a go.”

It took a bit of maneuvering, but soon James had taken Ned's place. After another minute, the animal had calmed significantly.

“You see, Ned? She just needs a firm, confident hand,” James said.

“Wouldn't need it at all if she weren't so pampered,” Lewis grumbled. “I've never seen a bloody sheep so stroppy about being handled.”

“She likes my touch well enough,” James said softly.

Lewis' blue eyes met his for a long moment. Without turning his head, he said, “Well, lad, nothing to see here. The stables need mucking out.”

After Ned hurried off, Lewis took one of the ewe's hooves in his hand and applied the knife deftly. Without looking up from his task, he said, “It's foot scald, as you suspected. I'll take care of it as soon as I get the trimming done.”

“Did we have any of the tincture left?”

“Enough for this job, but we might need more if it spreads.”

“I'll write to the company directly I am finished here.”

Lewis had no answer to that, and from then on they worked in silence, Lewis' blade flashing in the lamplight, his movements economical, his big, square hands gentle on the ewe. James watched him from beneath lowered lashes and felt at peace for the first time in days.

 

 

 

 

 

  
“My boy, a word, if you please.”

James closed his eyes briefly before turning back towards Mrs. Turnbull. She was an old friend of his uncle's, and as such had taken it upon herself to ease the renegade Hathaways back into the whirl of society. He was grateful for Mary's sake, but not for his own.

“Ma'am,” James said, inclining his head.

“Take a turn around the room with me,” she said imperiously. James faltered only slightly before following her order.

“Mr. Hathaway, are you aware that Mr. Davison has intentions towards your elder sister?”

James glanced at the corner of the room, where Mary and Davison were talking together, quite oblivious to the existence of everyone else. “I have not heard of this formally, ma'am, but I expect I may soon.”

“He has not spoken to you? He forgets himself, then. I will remind him of his duty. Permission must be given.”

“Forgive me, ma'am, but it is not my place to give permission,” James said. “Our brother, Matthew, is the eldest, and now that our father has passed, he is the head of the family.”

Mrs. Turnbull waved a hand. “He is a penniless farmer as your father was, without fortune or standing. No, Davison should seek his audience with you.”

James stopped dead in the middle of the room, aware of the eyes on them as Mrs. Turnbull took a couple more steps before realising her escort had deserted her. “My brother, Mrs. Turnbull,” James said, as quietly and as calmly as he could, “is neither penniless nor without standing. He is a good man, and a godly man, and he is worth any ten men in this room, myself included. If Davison's intentions are to ask for Mary's hand, I will insist that he speak with Matthew, and no other.”

Mrs. Turnbull stared at him, then huffed, “You are quite obstinate in your ignorance of social custom, Mr. Hathaway.”

“So I have been told, on many occasions,” James said. “I throw myself on your mercy, for there is only so much that can be done to improve an untutored wretch.”

Mrs. Turnbull eyed him for another moment, then shook her head. “I will say this: you have the courage of your convictions, however ridiculous they are.” She raised an eyebrow at him, and they fell into step once again, walking slowly together. “And you can be charming when you wish to be.”

“You flatter me.”

“I am opposed to flattery. It is a fact.” James only inclined his head at this, and she continued: “Such charm should not be wasted on an old widow like me, mind.”

“Forgive me if I offend you.”

“You do not. But you do offend the natural order of things.”

James had to force himself to keep walking. “I beg your pardon?”

“You have been an attentive and generous brother in seeing to your sisters' happiness, ensuring they were properly introduced at court and invited to all the premiere events of the season –”

“I have your guidance to thank for that –”

“Do not interrupt me,” Mrs. Turnbull snapped. “But now that they are properly launched, it is time for you to see to your own happiness.”

James felt a stone settle in his gut. “I am sure I do not know what you mean, ma'am.”

“I am sure you do. How old are you?”

“Twenty-eight, ma'am.”

“Far past time to be seeking a life partner,” Mrs. Turnbull informed him. “You have only been a sporadic visitor to London during the last two seasons–” James opened his mouth, but Mrs. Turnbull shot him a quelling glare and he closed it again “–but next season you must find more time to devote to your own social obligations.”

“I fear, ma'am, that I will not find a life partner among London society,” James said.

“Then find some agreeable well-bred country girl, if you must.” She stopped and wagged a finger at him. “Do not think you are immune to a loss of appeal because you are a man. I will not have you go the way of your uncle. He spurned my advice, and died a bachelor.”

“Is that so?” James said as blandly as possible considering his mind was busily making connections. Having only seen him on a handful of occasions in the last twenty years, he had known very little of his uncle, apart from the fact that he had died without direct heirs. It had always been a mystery to him why he had favoured James with his fortune.

I wonder if I have already gone the way of my uncle, Mrs. Turnbull, he thought, biting the inside of his lip to keep from smiling.

Mrs. Turnbull drew herself up to her full five foot two inches. “Mark my words: you will not meet the same fate as Randolph. Not if I have anything to say about it.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” James said, bowing to her. She nodded at him curtly and barrelled off towards the corner where Mary and Davison sat, scattering them like pigeons before an omnibus as she approached.

 

 

 

 

 

  
James found his groundskeeper in the south garden after tea, pruning the rose bushes. He straightened and nodded as James approached.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Lewis. How fare the roses?”

“Well, for now, if we do not have an early frost, sir.”

“Ah, yes, the almanack did predict that, didn't it?” He stepped a little closer to Lewis, standing to look out over the expanse of the south lawn. “We must enjoy them while we can, then.”

Lewis said nothing, and for a long moment the two men regarded the grounds.

James cleared his throat. “I fancy I might take a walk this evening.”

“Rain's on the way,” Lewis said, worn face tilting up to the skies. “I daresay there'll be a nasty downpour this evening.”

James laced his hands behind his back. “I am amazed at your skills of weather prediction,” he murmured. “Have you a touch of fairy blood?”

“I have a touch of old age,” Lewis quipped, lowering his head. “It gives me an ache in me joints that warns of storms, much like one of your glass-and-water gadgets.”

“How fascinating. Still, I wonder that you, or rather your joints, may be considered entirely reliable.”

Lewis said nothing for a long moment. “I'm only thinking of you. Sir.”

James drew himself up. “You think I fear a little rain?”

“No, sir. But perhaps you should.” He turned to look at James then, and James sucked in a breath at what he saw in Lewis' eyes. “You could catch your death.”

James stared at him, then snapped his gaze back to the horizon. “I suppose you have a point.” His tone was more petulant than he would have liked, but the words were out now.

He could still feel Lewis' gaze on the side of his face. “Your guests leave on Monday morning.”

James' hands gripped one another more tightly. “Yes.”

“I hear it will be a fine day for traveling.” There was a pause. “And for evening walks.”

James forced his hands to unclench, and they fell to his sides. “I will leave you to your work, Mr. Lewis,” he said, and turned away without waiting for a response.

 

 

 

 

 

  
The rain came exactly as Lewis had predicted that night and beat mercilessly against James' window-pane for hours, a suitable accompaniment to his own ill humour. In the morning, he was far too fatigued to attempt his usual chores, and awoke with the rest of the house. This put him in a foul mood for most of the day, which was leavened considerably by Davison's coming to him in the evening to let him know he would be riding for Devon on the morrow to ask Matthew for Mary's hand.

“I know that you consider me a fair weather friend,” Davison told him bluntly, much to James' surprise. He made to protest, but Davison held up a hand. “No, pray let me finish, for in some respects, you are correct. All I can say in my defense was that I know I was a horrid little popinjay when I was at Cambridge, and I am resolved to make it up to you now and be a welcome addition to your family.”

“Thank you,” James said simply, offering Davison his hand. The clasp that followed was warm and held no trace of insincerity, and James found himself revising his former opinion of the man.

“I love Mary very much,” Davison confided, “and wish to devote myself utterly to her happiness.”

“I am glad of it,” James replied, “for if ever you do not I will have to punch you squarely on the nose.”

Davison stared at him for a moment, then laughed. “You are a good brother. I hope one day soon I may call you the same.”

The relief of it struck James that night; though he would never think of his sisters as burdens, the responsibility for their futures had been a heavy one, and one he could scarce believe was all but lifted from him. He leant out the open window of his bedroom, smoking his pipe and thinking about a great many things. When exhaustion finally did claim him, it hit him like a hammer-blow, knocking him into a deep sleep that almost made him miss his guests' departure.

After the goodbyes had been said and the sisterly hugs returned tenfold, James returned to his bedroom to don his work clothes and third-best boots, then descended to the kitchen.

“Ah, there you are, lad,” Charlotte said, brushing a dusting of flour off her arms. There was a nearly completed pie sitting on the counter in front of her, the top having just been slid into place.

“Is that my favourite?” James asked, sidling up to her and attempting to peek under the top.

Charlotte slapped his hand away. “It might be,” she said archly, “though I don't see why I'd do anything for a man who made me fetch my own eggs this morning.”

James ducked his head and offered her his most contrite look, and she laughed. “You are a charmer, and no mistake, James Hathaway,” she said.

“Where's your young scholar?” James asked, swiping an apple from the bowl and biting into it.

“Helping Robert with the vegetable harvest,” she answered, “though he says he'd rather be reading Plato.”

“Proof he's ready for Cambridge,” James said.

“But is Cambridge ready for him?” Charlotte said.

There was a note of motherly concern in her voice that James recognised all too well. Coming up to her, he put an arm around her shoulders and hugged her briefly. “If I said Ned would have an easy time of it, I would be lying to you,” James said softly, “but though African students are a rare sight there, they are not unheard of, and have not been for well over a century.”

“Princes and governors' sons, perhaps,” Charlotte said. “But they have not seen his like.”

“They will next year,” James said, looking into her eyes. “And after him will come many more, of that I am certain.”

Charlotte met his gaze for a long moment, then nodded and patted his cheek. “All right, then, go on with you, m'dearie. I know you'd rather be out of doors.”

Smiling, James treated her to a small bow, then let himself out.

There had been a touch of cold overnight, leaving the air with a sharp, crisp scent that always set James' blood racing. It reminded him of harvest suppers with the family and quiet winter nights spent round the fire while the wind howled outside. He supposed he was truly middle-aged, for he firmly believed that none of London's enticements could compete with such homely delights.

He found Ned and Lewis stooped over the carrot patch. The day was not warm, but both of them were sweating from their efforts. Lewis wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, wincing as he straightened, and James felt something small yet infinitely powerful unfolding within himself at the sight.

“You should spare your back,” he murmured when he drew closer, allowing affection to dull the reproach.

Lewis shot him a look, then cut his eyes at Ned, who was still bent double a short distance away and seemingly oblivious to their conversation. “Work needs doing,” Lewis huffed, as though that settled the matter. James elected to continue that argument later, when there was no danger of them being overheard.

Lewis frowned at him and waved a finger in front of his own face. “You have flour on your cheek.”

James grinned and brushed at the spot Lewis had indicated. “Better?” Lewis nodded, and James added, “There will be apple and stewed rhubarb pie tonight.”

“Charlotte loves you too well,” Lewis said gruffly.

“There is no such thing as loving too well,” James murmured. He took a step closer, fully aware of the danger but dear God, it had been two weeks and he was so–

Lewis' eyes grew wide before he took a stumbling step back, nearly tripping over his own feet. “Carrots won't pull themselves,” he said sternly, and that was enough to bring James back to himself. Taking a deep breath to clear his head, he bent and began to help, burying his hands in the soft, cool earth.

 

 

 

 

 

  
Once again, Lewis was correct about the weather: it was a fine evening for a walk, and James took full advantage of it. When Lewis opened the door to his cottage, James was on him in a trice, kissing him with a desperate passion. He kicked the door closed behind him and immediately began backing Lewis towards the stairs.

“Christ, lad,” Lewis said, breathless, “you're –”

At that moment, James bent to bite at Lewis' neck, and Lewis' words died on a groan. His hands rose to James' hips, then to his chest, thick fingers splayed. By the time they reached the top of the stairs, Lewis had stripped him of his shirt and was starting on his trouser buttons. Lewis was not the sort to speak of his desire, but the urgency of his actions told James everything he needed to know. As Lewis laid the flat of his palm against the swell of James' cock, James let his kiss speak in a similar way, and it seemed that Lewis understood.

That understanding evaporated when they were finally lying together in the bed and James resisted Lewis' attempt to roll him over. At Lewis' bemused look, James laid a hand on Lewis' cheek and murmured, “Not tonight, love.”

Lewis frowned, his sharp mind divining the reason for James' objection. “You're still on about that, are you?”

“I am,” James murmured. “I would not have you injure yourself for my sake.”

“Not only for your sake,” Lewis said, gaze averted. “I would – I want –” He trailed off with a frustrated growl, but even that much of an admission was a great deal for him, and it nearly took James' breath away. His first paramour had read him poetry in bed; James knew he would never get this from Lewis, but his heart had chosen, and he was powerless against it.

“I want it too,” James assured him, brushing his lips against Lewis' chin. “I have dreamt about it every night since the last time.”

Lewis tilted his head down and captured James' mouth. “Then for God's sake, don't deny me now.”

James kissed him deeply for some moments, then pulled back when an idea struck him. “Perhaps I do not have to.” He sat up, breaking their contact, but when Lewis tried to follow him, he placed a firm hand on his chest. Shaking his head, he said, “No. Stay like that.”

Lewis' eyes widened as comprehension set in. “James,” he said, tone wary.

James leaned over and plucked the jar of grease from the bedside table. They had been doing this for nearly a year, but despite the fact that James had managed to introduce variety in some respects, Lewis still clung to some of his fixed notions in others. As James moved to straddle Lewis' hips, he said, “Women and men may enjoy this position; why not us?”

Lewis stared up at him. “It would be immodest for a woman to take such a place.”

Now it was James' turn to stare. “Do you mean to say that in twenty years of marriage you never –”

Lewis looked away. “I thought about it, now and then,” he murmured, a soft confession, “but I never wanted to dishonour her by suggesting it.”

_And she may well have wanted it, but was as cowed by convention as you. Oh, Robbie._ “I understand,” was all he said aloud. “And if you wish, we may stop and never speak another word of it.”

Lewis' gaze softened at that, and his hands, which had been lying limply on the bed, rose to cup the jut of James' hips. “No,” he said softly, twin spots of colour blooming on his cheeks. “I would not have you stop.”

James smiled and leaned down to kiss him. “Then I shall not,” he promised. And later, when they were joined and Lewis was spread beneath him, his head thrown back and a blissful expression transforming his dear, lined face into that of a much younger man, James decided he would gladly forgo poetry for a sight so beautiful.

 

 

 

 

 

  
“I am going to sell the estate,” James said, his fingers toying with the silver hairs on Lewis' chest.

Lewis stirred from his half-slumber. “What about your sisters?”

“Mary will soon be the wife of a respectable man, and Grace has declared her independence.” He nuzzled at the place his fingers had been. “If I stay, Mrs. Turnbull will have me trussed up like a sacrificial lamb next Easter and that will be the end of me.”

Lewis' hand settled on the back of James' head. “I suspect she will hunt you down no matter what you do.”

“Mmm, well, my plans will have the side-benefit of diminishing me in her regard. I'll keep enough to live on, but the lion's share will go to a project I've been speaking about with Matthew and a benevolent society of Africans we met with in London. I would buy a building in Cambridge and establish it as a meeting-house for African students without means, and take the society's recommendations regarding promising lads worthy of scholarships. If there is enough left over and there is a demand for it, we could add boarding facilities for those who require them.”

“You would go to Cambridge?” Lewis asked.

James shook his head, Lewis' chest hair tickling his cheek as he did. “No. I have yet to ask Charlotte if she would run it for me, but I believe she would be delighted to remain close to Ned. She is as good at keeping the books as any man employed at a London counting-house, and I have no doubt she would be a most suitable choice for the position.”

Lewis made an impatient noise. “Then where are you going?”

“I was thinking about purchasing a farm in Northumbria,” James said. “Grace will be teaching in Newcastle-upon-Tyne, and I would like to be close to her.” He paused, not daring to raise his head to gauge Lewis' reaction.

“Northumbria,” Lewis repeated, tone flat.

James' heart sank at the clear lack of enthusiasm. “Have you ever considered returning?”

Lewis went completely still. “You want me to go with you?”

James looked up at that, startled. “Of course I do. The farm would be small enough for two men to manage comfortably. And it would belong to both of us.”

Lewis' expression was unreadable. “Oh.”

James' heart was now threatening to shatter. “You do not seem to find the idea appealing.”

Lewis shook his head. “No, lad. I'm only – surprised.”

“Surprised?” James bracketed Lewis' face with his hands. “Surely you cannot doubt how I feel about you.”

“No,” Lewis said, voice gentling, “though I may doubt your sanity on occasion, as well as me own.”

James buried his head in Lewis' neck, unable to bear his refusal. “I _am_ mad for you,” he whispered. “I have never loved another and never will, and if you will not leave here I will stay as long as you wish, but I will not marry, I will not allow them to part us, I will –”

Lewis' fingers stroked through James' hair. “Shhh, pet, shhhh,” he soothed, his other arm wrapping tightly around James' back. “I will go with you. I could do nowt else, for you made my heart beat again when I thought it had stopped forever. I can deny you nothing.”

James squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed convulsively around the lump in his throat. How could he have ever thought the man had no poetry in him? “Robbie, I –”

“I know, lad,” Lewis murmured. “Sleep now. Morning comes soon enough, and there will be work to be done.”

James released a long, shuddering breath against Lewis' neck. He fell asleep in the circle of Lewis' arms and dreamt of a winter night by the fire, watching the flickering light playing over a beloved face.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Footnote: Grace is going to teach at [Dame Allan's school](http://www.dameallans.co.uk/heritage) in Newcastle-Upon-Tyne, and [this site](http://www.nationalarchives.gov.uk/pathways/blackhistory/index.htm) gives a great deal of interesting information about the lives of people of African and South Asian descent in Britain from 1500-1850.


End file.
